Art Runs In The Blood
by Cryptix
Summary: There's a reason that Holmes has such high hopes for Inspector Stanley Hopkins. A series of shorts, ficlets, and drabbles focusing on the youngest Inspector. Mostly non-slashy, installments have their own warnings as necessary.
1. The New Inspector

_A/N: This is based off a strange off-handed comment in Hopkins' section of the 'Minor Sherlock Holmes characters' wiki, and a plot bunny that jumped at me during a subsequent conversation with AdidasandPie. I blame her for encouraging it._

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Since my publishing of many of the later cases of my companion Sherlock Holmes, my readers have expressed curiosity over many aspects of the stories. One question that I have met with surprising frequency is why Holmes, not exactly known for a personable or encouraging attitude, yet admired and had high expectations for the young inspector Stanley Hopkins. For a time I wondered the same thing, and I found the answer - unfortunately for the public, that information can never be published, and so they are left to wonder and theorize on their own time. A few interesting theories have been put forth, but none are so strange and scandalous as the truth, however little of it even I know. The full details of the matter are only known to two people in the whole of England, and it is their prerogative to keep or share it as they wish.

It was during a stormy week in '94, only shortly after Holmes' miraculous return to life, that we first met the boy. At the time he was stripped to his shirtsleeves, soaked to the skin, and smelled rather peculiar, due to having just dived into the Thames to fish out an unconscious constable. Certainly an auspicious start, if not the best of first impressions. He greeted us with a grin and an apology that he would not shake our hands, and then fell back to let us speak to Lestrade, who introduced him shortly as the new Inspector and then got down to business. Inspectors came and went, and we thought little of the matter.

A few days later we met him again, when Lestrade called us to a house in Brimsdown, on a matter of little note when compared to the affairs that have graced the pages of the _Strand_. We would not have even gone to the scene, and rather allowed Lestrade to consult Holmes in the sitting-room the next day as his telegram suggested, but that we'd solved another case over a fine late supper and the night found Holmes in a good humour. Suffice to say that at the onset the matter concerned some mysterious sounds that had awoken the housekeeper, and that the young daughter had been found missing. The muddy ground had produced a set of footprints leading up to the house to the kitchen window, which had been forced open, but there was no sign of anything going the other way.

Hopkins was outside when we arrived, stock-straight and with a hand on his chin as he scrutinized the hard concrete of the front walk. We were more than a dozen yards away when he spun and rushed to greet us, good-natured energy in every motion despite his puzzled state. Though he still smelled faintly from his unfortunate swim, he looked a good sight better, and it could now be seen that he was a trim and handsome youth of good grooming and alert manner, which was almost promising but for the lack-lustre look in his gray eyes. He led us to the house and announced our presence to Lestrade. Though he stood aside again while Lestrade explained the details, I could see that the lad had fallen back into thought, his head sunk down and his fingers absently brushing his moustache.

Holmes did his usual pacing about the place, closely inspecting the window-ledges, the floor, several items about the living-room, and the wall by the fireplace. He questioned the housekeeper and the worried parents about the girl's habits, about the history of the house, about anything valuable in their possession. Before long he came to rest again in the front hall, with such an affected boredom to his expression that I knew he must have solved the case, and found it much less interesting than he'd hoped, so that the only entertainment he would glean would be from the reaction of the unfortunate inspector who'd taken up his time. He had just opened his mouth to begin his no doubt scathingly obvious revelation, when the most remarkable thing occurred.

"He can't have left," Hopkins spoke up for the first time since he'd stepped into the house. Lestrade and I both expected Holmes to snort and continue, but instead he stared at the Junior Inspector, shut his mouth, and waited. The boy looked up at us, the glassy look of his eyes replaced with an excited fire, and he repeated his declaration. Then he was off like a shot, speaking at a mile a minute about the layout of the house, the habits of the family, and the character of the burglar, which was all quite hard to follow when also trying to keep up with him dashing off into the kitchen.

We arrived just in time to see him grab hold of a section of kitchen floor and toss it up. Two shots rang out, whistling through the air where the enthusiastic young inspector had been standing just before Holmes bore him out of the danger zone with a hurried tackle.

"You forgot the boots - recent ex-military, likely to be armed," my friend quipped, helping Hopkins back to his feet.

Between Lestrade, Hopkins, Holmes, and myself, the unfortunate burglar was apprehended and the girl recovered without anyone being damaged. She had not been harmed but was quite shaken, having awoken in the night and surprised a burglar on her way to a glass of water, and been taken hostage to keep from raising the alarm when the housekeeper came to investigate. It hardly even needs to be said that the criminal was indeed a retired corporal and armed with an army revolver.

The Inspectors escorted the man off the premises to the tune of many thanks from the family, while I turned to Holmes and suggested that perhaps, in this case, they actually deserved to get the credit.

Holmes nodded absently. "Perhaps," he murmured, and then looked to me with an expression I could not read, except to say that his mind was not entirely within the present. "My dear Watson, would you mind overmuch if we took a detour by the Yard offices on the way home?"

My curiosity at this strange question prevented me from saying anything but yes. We thus caught a hansom, and my companion remained in a brooding silence for the trip, shedding no further light on whatever was occurring in his remarkable brain. Nor did he see fit to enlighten me once we'd arrived. In fact, I would almost say he had completely forgotten me, which meant this was a most grave matter indeed. I could not begin to fathom why.

Hopkins was quite surprised when we stepped into his office, his eyes widening as he looked up from his paperwork. He rose and smiled despite his uncertainty. "Mr. Holmes! Doctor! Didn't expect to see you again so soon. What can I do for you? Is it about the case?"

"No, nothing like that. Just a friendly visit - I work often with the Yard, after all, and it is to my benefit to know the men I work with."

I fought to keep a bland expression covering my disbelief. Several new inspectors had been promoted during the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, but he had never before gone out of his way to meet them. In fact, he was usually scornful of the 'new blood'. I considered that his three-year absence had changed him more than I'd suspected, but this was entirely unprecedented.

While I was struggling to understand just what my friend was playing at, Holmes had engaged Hopkins in a lively conversation, which had just turned from character to family. "I believe blood contributes just as much to a person as their upbringing," Holmes was saying. "You're from a military family, aren't you?"

Hopkins nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, that's right! My father was a Major."

"Came into good fortune, but fell on hard times soon thereafter?"

The inspector, rather than be scandalized by this examination of his family life, only laughed. "I'd read of your powers, Mr. Holmes, but I must admit I never thought I'd see them in person! How did you know?"

"The daguerreotype," Holmes said, pleased by the admiration of his audience. He tapped the open folding case that decorated Hopkins' desk, within which was a picture that indeed bore the distinctive mirrored surface of the silver process. "They are quite expensive, but widely renowned as the most beautiful photographic process, and this one appears to be some years old. The happy young couple could not be anyone but your parents. And yet, rich men do not let their sons join the Metro."

Hopkins laughed again and settled into his chair. "True, true, you have me there. My father earned a considerable inheritance when an uncle died, but invested in a bad business and lost it all. Hardly his fault, sir, and there's no shame in the telling of it."

"Surely not. I must admit, you don't seem to take after him much."

"Hardly at all. I'm square on my mother's side in looks, though she says I've got my father's energy."

"Does she?" I perceived a momentary flash in my friend's eyes. "You know, looking at that photograph, I could swear she was the sister of a friend of mine in college. What was her maiden name?"

"Romilly. Myrna Romilly, but you're mistaken there, she never had a brother."

"Hm, you may be right, the name doesn't strike any chords. Perhaps a cousin. Well, we've taken enough time from your paperwork. It was nice to meet you, Inspector Hopkins - I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon."

Holmes did not speak of the matter again that night. He remained quiet through breakfast, then settled onto the settee with a lit pipe, a glassy look in his eyes that forewarned a melancholy mood. Whatever it was, it troubled him greatly, and yet he would not volunteer the information and I was not quite ready to press it out of him. Instead I picked up the _Times_ and noted, "Hopkins has made the front page." My friend stirred slightly at that, so I went on to read the glowing review, and when I'd finished a ghost of a smile graced his lips.

"You know, Watson, I think that boy has real potential," he mused.

I smiled too as, quite suddenly, the pieces fell into place. "Of course he does," I said, and with a sideways glance added as casually as possible, "He has his father's eyes."

It was well worth it for the start that Holmes gave, his pipe falling from his lips as he sat bolt-upright. His eyes were wide when they focused on me. When I only smiled, he relaxed, chuckling sheepishly as he fished the pipe back out of the folds of his dressing gown.

"I must remember that you are more observant than you appear, my friend. When did you figure it out?"

"Just now," I said, folding my paper. "I wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't confirmed it. The idea of you as a father seems nearly fantastical."

"It does, doesn't it?" He sighed, laying back once more. "I suppose you'd like an explanation."

"If you wouldn't mind. It is a rather private matter, though."

He drew a long draught from his pipe and contemplated the bullet-pocks in the ceiling, taking his time before he answered. "I was barely into manhood, reckless, and charming. She was a few years older, intelligent, and passionate, but lonely with her husband away in the army. It lasted only two months, from the time I met her to the time her husband returned, then it was over. I never saw or heard of her again until last night." He took another puff. "We all make mistakes in our youth, my dear doctor.

"Perhaps, with a little encouragement, mine will come to some good."

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_Sherlock Holmes, Stanley Hopkins, and company do not belong to me, no matter what strange theories I might put to pixel.  
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_P.S. Please don't hate me._

_P.P.S. As always, reviews are appreciated and adored, and other good 'A' words.  
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	2. Summoning the Detective

Lestrade was not as unobservant as his unflattering descriptions in the good doctor's stories would have the reader believe. Perhaps he wasn't quite as smart as Gregson, and certainly he was no match for one Sherlock Holmes, but he was not unobservant. He was just a little slower about it.

He'd been quick enough to discover that there was one surefire way to summon the aforementioned amateur. It hardly took a genius to notice that Holmes had a fascination for the bizarre and outré, and a not inconsiderable streak of pride. One did not even have to be very subtle about it; just mention a few details in a perplexing case and say how it was right up his alley, and he would be there as surely as a fly on rotting meat. It did not take too long before the other Inspectors caught on to this trick, and the smart ones made use of it.

It was entirely accidental that Lestrade discovered a second method, when a footnote in a telegram suddenly found Holmes and the doctor 'just in the neighborhood' of a troubling case. It had required a second test, but again Holmes had showed with an offhanded excuse.

Lestrade could not fathom _why_ the casual mention of Hopkins having difficulties should summon Holmes so readily, but it worked.

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_Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, and Stanley Hopkins do not belong to me._

_So apparently I'm extending this concept into a series of shorts, ficlets, and drabbles. Hopefully it'll stay entertaining._

_According to WordCount, this one is 221 words. Heh.  
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	3. Tough As Nails I: Awake

_A/N: Rating raised to K+ for safety due to mentions of bygone violence.  
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_**Watson:**_

_Mr Holmes, I apologize for imposing on you at this early hour, but I have a most troubling case on my hands and I would greatly appreciate your council, and the doctor's as well. Aside from my own inquiries I have left everything as it was found, but I do not know how much longer I can do so. I would be much obliged if you could make haste._

_Yours, Stanley Hopkins_

_P.S. I hope you have not eaten yet. You and the doctor are men of strong nerve, but this scene is truly gruesome._

So read the letter that was to blame for my being turned out of bed and bundled into a cab at such an ungodly hour as five, with barely enough time for a cup of coffee, much less anything resembling solid food. Having caught only a few hours' sleep due to the storm inflaming my old wounds, it was only by grace of my military experience and Holmes' infectious excitement that I was in any state approaching awareness, and only by grace of my good British upbringing that I was at all civil about it. I handed the letter back to Holmes. "So what do you make of it?"

"A murder, no doubt, and a grisly one at that. It must be of a unique character to have him so agitated. You noted the unsteady script, of course, and our dear Hopkins is not easily affected."

"Possibly he knew the victim," I suggested.

"That would be one explanation. We shall have to wait and see."

We did not have to wait long, for the cab rolled into Rotherhithe district soon enough. Once-wealthy docks given over to decay passed on our right, with the river Thames glinting behind them like a stained satin ribbon. The cabbie pulled to the left, bringing us up another street and to the address with which we had been supplied. A warehouse loomed before us, long-abandoned and crumbling, but evidently the sturdy and stubborn sort of construction that would likely stand strong for years until a demolition crew was finally sent to tear it down. Two uniformed constables were stationed outside and a Maria was parked out front, and save for them and our cab the street was empty.

Hopkins rushed from the doorway to greet us almost as soon as our shoes met the pavement. "Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! So good of you to come on such short notice, I really am very sorry for the trouble." He shook both our hands with his characteristic enthusiasm, but his ashen pallor and the insincere jerkiness of his manner betrayed the state of his nerves.

I could tell that my friend was intrigued already. "No matter, Hopkins, we are here now and it's best you give us the facts at once."

"Ah, of course, of course. I'm afraid there's not too many of those, although..." he paused for a long moment, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. This case, it's got me all turned around. The facts, right. The facts are that not less than two hours ago the night watch was drawn to this building by terrible cries - a man's, sir, before you get to wondering. The constable rushed here in time to intercept an old tramp that was running from the building, wild with fear and crying 'murder' at the top of his lungs. Well, our man was skeptical, of course, but he checked inside, and... and, well, sir, I think it's best you see the inside for yourself." He steered us down the lane, allowing for Holmes to stop and check the walk on the way in, though the rain-washed concrete apparently yielded nothing.

The smell of old wood and a large, open area greeted us immediately, lit up by shafts of sunlight through the grimy windows and broken walls. Hopkins lead us off to the side, through an open doorway into what had to have once been an office, with a constable standing guard just beyond the door. The little room was in no better shape than the rest of the building. No one noticed a few creaking floorboards, however, as our attention was arrested by the single furnishing in the center, which cast a sudden light on Hopkins' postscript.

A length of dark canvas had been lain across the floor, and upon it was stretched the body of a young woman, face-down with her arms stretched above her head. All along her narrow back was a dark red crust of dried blood, so thick that it nearly obscured the fact that it covered bare skin and not a blouse. I felt my stomach twisting already, even as I knelt beside Holmes to examine her.

"This was how we found her, sir. I was going to roll her over, but I thought I'd wait until you could have a look." Strangely, Hopkins' voice had steadied. A glance showed that his features had hardened as well, bearing a stony professionalism that mirrored the look on my friend's face. "I preserved as many of the footprints as I could, but I expect that between the tramp and the constable, they'll not be of much use."

"Never underestimate the use of a smudged footprint," Holmes murmured, brushing back the wild flaxen halo of the girl's hair to examine her neck. "What time did you say she was found?"

"The tramp says he found her at three, but I was called at nearer three-forty. I expect the duty guard took some convincing before he investigated."

"So you got a story from the tramp?"

"Barely, sir. He was already drunk and well out of his wits, so it was hard to make sense of any of his babbling. He's cooling down at the station now so we can get a more coherent story. From what I could decipher, he was walking home from the lushery when he saw a man enter here with something slung over his shoulder, and then walk back out without it. I didn't get a clear description other than that he was big - whether that means tall or wide or both, I don't know. Our witness was curious and knew this place was out of use, so he came in to see."

While they discussed, Holmes and I continued our investigation of the girl. While Holmes' examination had brought him to her lacerated extremities, I was focusing on her trunk and on determining time of death. I had become distracted by a pattern of metallic disks that shone dully amidst the bloodstains. Only after touching one did I realized with a sickening lurch what they were.

"Holmes," I croaked. "These are nails."

"So they are. Carpentry, I'd wager." His voice was detached and cold. I knew him well enough to know that it didn't mean he was unaffected, rather the opposite.

"Her hands and feet were bound," Hopkins supplied. "That much is obvious from the rope-burns. The damage only... erm, only reaches up to her knees. We'll have to wait for confirmation from the inquest, but it looks like whoever our man is, they weren't interested in her as a woman."

"No appreciable maggot growth," I observed, having regathered my wits. "She can't be more than a few hours dead. I'd put time of death about one or two."

"Right then, help me turn her," Holmes said.

With great care the three of us rolled her onto her back, revealing a pretty face in an oddly serene expression, and an equally bare and not quite so bloody chest. After a moment, Hopkins shrugged out of his jacket and set it over her.

"I highly doubt that she is concerned with modesty at this point," Holmes reprimanded while he peeled open her eyes and sniffed at her lips.

"Maybe not, but I am. Dead or not she deserves some respect. You can lift a little cloth for your investigation."

"As you already have."

Hopkins flushed and did not answer. My friend didn't seem to notice his consternation, for he had returned to her arms and now gave a cry of delight.

"Ah! See to it that inquest checks her for stimulants, Hopkins. You see here, in the crook of the elbow, a fresh needle-mark."

"Maybe she's an addict." Hopkins knelt to examine the evidence, shaking his head almost immediately. "No, no, you're right, of course, there aren't any older marks. But tell me, why a stimulant?"

"An educated guess. Her pupils are dilated, and there's a trace scent of chloroform about her face, so it's unlikely he'd deliver an additional sedative through needle." My friend rose, his face grave. "Besides," he said, "he wanted her awake. "

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_Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Stanley Hopkins, and company do not belong to me._

_And thus begins the Tough As Nails arc. I currently have seven more planned, but it keeps expanding, so we'll have to see._

_Thanks to AdidasandPie for betaing this and helping me make it better._


	4. Tough As Nails II: Lessons In Death

_**Hopkins:**_

On the surface, I remained calm. Cold, even. Expressionless. It was the only thing I could do, trapped as I was between cold horror and searing anger, both warring for dominance and neither conducive to resolving the events at hand. I had to remain calm. I had to do my job.

"A-awake?" My voice crackled in my ears like dry leaves. "How do you figure that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not much point in doing all this on an unresponsive form," he answered almost offhandedly. He had been unerringly calm since the moment he'd walked in, as if this were of no more consequence then the usual thefts and disappearances he dealt with, and for a moment I wondered if he just didn't _have_ feelings, if he just faked them when they were necessary. Or maybe he'd lost them over the falls, traded his emotions for his life like in some strange fairy story.

"She's a prostitute from the Chiswick docks," he had continued, heedless of my inner turmoil. "Our man is a little taller than me, with a shuffling stride, and large hands - see the bruising on her neck and wrists - probably wide shoulders and strong arms. The nails suggest he's a carpenter by trade, and armed with a short, rather dull knife. That ought to give you a good start."

I nodded. "Yes, it should. Thank you, sir." I didn't ask if he was taking the case. I half-hoped that he wouldn't.

He must have sensed it, somehow, but he was having none of it. "You will, of course, send the coroner's report on as soon as possible?" It was hardly a question.

"Of course, sir."

"Good. I think we've gleaned all that we can from here. What say we see how your tramp is faring?"

He swept out of the room, the doctor trailing behind with an apologetic glance as he passed me. I ignored it, turning my attention to the constable who was looking rather the worse for wear after that conversation. "Mitchell, get the others and see her out of here."

The constable was only too eager to take his leave from the room, if only for a few minutes, leaving me alone with the body. I crouched beside her. So gentle was her expression that I could almost mistake her for sleeping, were it not for the terrible slashes that I was trying not to look at. Gingerly I reached out and smoothed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, the way she used to. Had it really been six years?

"I'll get him, Molly," I assured her. "I'll get the bastard. Don't you worry none about that."

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_Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Stanley Hopkins, and company do not belong to me._

_The astute reader probably recognizes some elements from bemj11's stories. I make no secret that her interpretation of the Inspectors has seriously influenced my own. If you haven't read her stuff yet, you should go do so now._


	5. Tough As Nails III: Letters and Concerns

_**Watson: **_

"You let him go _alone_?"

Holmes' outburst echoed through the Yard offices. I winced in sympathy for Lestrade, who looked bewildered at the sudden show of anger from the normally imperturbable amateur.

"Mister Holmes, I am not-"

"You are not many things, Inspector, and competent is one of them, that much is clear! Do you have _any_ idea - no, of course you don't!" Holmes uttered an invective he could only have learned in one of his stints as Captain Basil and darted out of the room. I exchanged a glance with the long-suffering inspector, wordlessly indicating that no, I didn't know what was going on in his head either, but we'd best follow anyway. He nodded, sighed, and grabbed his coat.

Despite having been in Holmes' company since the beginning of this case, to say nothing of the past decade, I still honestly did not follow his train of thought. This time, at least, I could blame it on his withholding information rather than on my own inattention.

The post-mortem report had arrived in the midst of my mid-morning nap, prompting Holmes to roust me with a jubilant cry of "Ephedrine, my boy, ephedrine! Come, there's not a moment to waste!" If I did not know him better I might have thought him mad; instead I recognized the energy that often seized him as the conclusion of a case came just within his grasp. His eyes fair glowed, he smiled without restraint, and though his motions were languid as ever he practically vibrated with potential energy. Thoughtless as he could be in such a state, I still could not help but to follow.

He bustled me out onto the pavement, apparently intending to walk to the destination that he had not disclosed to me. The storm of last night had cleared and the bright sun burned away the fog and moisture, so that the only evidence of it was the oily puddles still pooled in the dark corners along the kerb. The aggravation from my wounds had cleared with the storm, and in all it was as pleasant a day for a walk as could be reasonably hoped for in the heart of murky London.

As was his habit in such a humour, Holmes began to explain his mind to me shortly, in his own roundabout fashion. "Tell me, my dear doctor, what do you know of ephedrine?"

I considered. "A somewhat obscure stimulant. Used for the treatment of asthma and bronchitis, especially by orientals." He was looking at me keenly, so I ventured, "Are you saying the perpetrator is oriental?"

"You're drawing conclusions too quickly. Think, where _else_ is it commonly used?"

I admitted that I did not know, and he scoffed. "Sailors, man! American sailors are recommended an equal dose of ephedrine and promethazine to combat seasickness. It just happens that a ship from San Francisco is moored at Chiswick these past two days. That narrows our prospects quite handily, I would say."

We reached the mouth of the near alley then, whereupon Holmes let out a piercing whistle, and informed the first ragamuffin to appear that he should like to see a contingent of no less than six Irregulars at our home in half an hour. He tipped the boy a shilling and then we were off again, this time hailing a cab. Holmes' explanations were forgotten in favour of an animated critique of the performance of _Der Freischütz _scheduled at the theatre. We soon reached the telegraph offices, where Holmes sent off three telegrams, declining to inform me of either their content or their destination. Then we returned home, where for a moment I wondered why he'd woken me in the first place, but decided I enjoyed his company enough to not mind overmuch.

The Irregulars appeared right on schedule, causing quite a clamor downstairs while Morsley ran up to our sitting-room. Holmes described our suspected large American sailor to him and had him set the boys up on the docks, with express order to not approach the man. A handful of silver coins were passed over and the boy dismissed, and Holmes dove into a chemical experiment, presumably awaiting further news. I was terribly curious by now, but knew better than to press my friend for information.

It was several hours before we had word again, in the form of a telegram delivered with a copy of an unfamiliar paper. Holmes' brow creased as he read over the response, but it was when his attention had turned to the paper that he began to look troubled to even the unskilled viewer.

"What is it, Holmes? Bad news?" I had not known my friend to be affected by much aside from the drying up of a promising lead or a direct threat on my life.

"In a way. It seems Hopkins has stumbled upon an international case. My telegrams were inquiring of the American embassy - our perpetrator has struck three times before in San Francisco. One of the victims- halloa, what's this?"

A tug on the bell and the sound of feet pounding up the steps had interrupted him, and shortly one of the older guttersnipes had appeared. "Found your man, Mister Holmes! S'got a room on the docks, I can lead ya right to it!"

"Good, Simpson!" Holmes hopped to his feet, looking back at me. I was already up and pocketing my revolver, at which he smiled. "I think we shall gather young Hopkins on the way, it seems only fair he be there at the conclusion of his case."

And it would have been fair, except that Hopkins was not there when we inquired, and we were informed that he had left to 'check on something'. Why these words lead to Holmes abusing Lestrade's ears and darting out of the Yard, I am not certain, but I am sure that before he turned away I caught sight of an expression of anxiety that I had never seen in all our years together. Whatever his new information had provided him with made him truly fearful for Hopkins' safety.

Lestrade and I followed Holmes out as quickly as we could manage. Through some means he had already managed to divert a brougham and was arguing simultaneously with the well-dressed passenger that he had displaced (apparently rather abruptly) and the driver. Holmes' sharp tongue and masterful manner quickly convinced the gentleman to stand aside and wait for a hansom, while the cabbie was swayed more conventionally by the flash of coins. He did not even protest when the unwashed Simpson hopped in, while Holmes turned back to scowl at us. "Quickly!" He snapped, entering the brougham himself with a single graceful motion.

The Inspector and I were hardly inside before he called to the cabman. "Whip up the horse! As fast as you dare! A half-sovereign if you get us there in ten minutes!"

The cabman took such encouragement to heart, and in mere moments we were being jostled unforgivingly, taking turns so quickly that I was afraid the cab would tip. Holmes was apparently unfazed by the erratic motion of the vehicle, his expression stony once more. His silence in itself was telling.

"Holmes?" I ventured. After a moment he met my questioning gaze, and over the clatter of wheels and hooves I could just barely make out his response.

"I only pray we're not too late."

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_Holmes and the boys don't belong to me._

_Whuh-oh, what sort of trouble is Hopkins in? Is he in trouble at all? Is Holmes worried over nothing? Find out next time!  
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_Thanks again to AdidasandPie for helping me fix this installment. Truly loverly, that girl.  
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	6. Tough As Nails IV: Tefached

_A/N: I'm not sure, but I think this should technically raise it to a T rating for the mild torture sequence. You've been warned._

_This one has **not** been beta'd.

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**Hopkins:**_

I would have liked to say that this was all proceeding according to plan. I would have liked to say that, like mister Sherlock Holmes, I had accounted for every variable and had a neat little trap set to spring on my villain any second now. I would have liked to say a lot of things. Unfortunately, the foul-tasting cloth that had been tied into my mouth made saying anything rather difficult.

This was _not_ according to plan.

The plan had been to set up a girl near the inn where the crew of the good ship _Morwenna_ had put in for the last few days. She would make herself a convenient target - the way I knew Molly would have, the poor girl never had much sense - while I followed at a distance in a meager disguise. Meanwhile, the local patrol had been advised as to my presence, and were to set to arrive as soon as I raised the alert.

Anne, Molly's older sister, had agreed readily to play the part of the hapless girl. I admired her bravery as she walked down the wharf, smiling invitingly at the men that passed, knowing full well that one of them might be the man that killed her sister. Twice she was waylaid by potential clients, but neither fit the description Holmes had given me. She looked at me, I shook my head, and she made some excuse to hurry on.

The third time she was met at the end of an alley by a tall, burly sailor, and when I didn't shake my head she struck up a pleasant chat with him, showing not the slightest hint of unease. While she kept his rapt attention with the coy fluttering of her lashes and her alluringly sweet smiles, I studied him from halfway through the alley, trying to deduce if this was our mad carpenter after all.

So intent was I on my study that I all but forgot about the rest of my surroundings. I did not hear the slow footsteps behind me, did not feel the presence of another person at all until suddenly there was a weight on my shoulders, cloth over my nose and mouth and a sickly-sweet smell in place of air. I had only a few moments to struggle before I was gone, and my last coherent thought was for Anne's safety.

I have no idea how much time passed before I woke. The first thing I was aware of was a headache pounding against the front of my skull.

The second thing I was aware of was cold air on my back.

After that, everything else just sort of tumbled in all at once. I was stretched face-down over a hard surface, securely lashed at the wrists and ankles. I had been divested of my coat, waistcoat, shirt, shoes, and socks. I had been gagged. In testing my bonds I found that the crook of my right arm stung, as from an injection. I also found that the surface I was on creaked, and decided it was most likely a wooden table. The slight breeze smelled of wet wood and rotting fish, so I was still on the docks. There was a lack of movement around me, so I must be alone, and I took some momentary comfort in that.

I didn't want to open my eyes. Some childish part of me clung to the irrational belief that if I didn't open my eyes, it wouldn't be real.

Then there was the sound of a door opening from somewhere behind me, not far, it couldn't be a very big room. Footsteps approached and paused near the table. I stilled, hoping that if I still appeared to be under the effects of chloroform I would be spared. For a time, at least, but I clung to the hope that I could use that time to get myself out of this. Perhaps I could even hope for a rescue. Anne might realize I was gone and go to the constables. There was a chance they could find me, a chance they-

_Sweet mother of god!_

The gag muffled my cry even as I instinctively curled away from the pain. A knife, it had to have been, dull and ragged, slicing into my side and drawing a warm rivulet of blood to trickle down my ribcage. There was no denying the reality of the situation anymore, no fooling my captor. My eyes snapped open, just in time to see the flash of the blade as it made a mirroring cut on my other side. This time I stifled my cry, but strained again at the ship-knots that kept me bound. They wouldn't give, I already knew that, just as I knew that I would rub my wrists to bleeding before I stopped trying. I distracted myself by focusing on my tormentor.

He was tall and broad, with skin like leather from weather and work. His face was framed by dark, wild hair, and a pair of deep-set eyes met my gaze for a fleeting moment, all shadows in the dim lamplight - night must have fallen while I was unconscious. I expected him to smirk or sneer, to revel in the pain that he was causing, but the expression he turned on me was disarmingly soft. He regarded me like a painting, like fine china, like a prized show-dog. Somehow that chilled me more than all the threats and jeers of my career.

The moment passed, he turned out of my range of vision, and with a sinking heart I knew what he was going for. I squeezed my eyes shut again, but I couldn't shut out the sounds, and they grated on nerves already rubbed raw from fear and drugs. The metallic scrape of the hammer as he picked it up. The dull jingle of nails as the box was moved to somewhere near my hip. The rustle of one being drawn out. I could already imagine the feel of it shattering my shoulder blade or plunging into my spine. Some strange, detached part of me wondered where he'd start. I felt utterly helpless and the feeling made me sick.

A tiny point of cold metal pressed into my back. I snapped like a violin string wound too tight, began to thrash, trying madly to dislodge my hands, my feet, my mouth, just trying to make myself a more challenging target, anything to feel less totally at this madman's mercy.

The hammer was set down with a smooth, patient motion, and then the knife dragged another cut into my ribcage, digging in deeper than the others. I abandoned all sense of pride and screamed as loud as I could, hoping against hope that someone, _anyone_ would hear me. The only response was another corresponding cut, more pain searing up my side. Perfect symmetry, just like Molly.

Just like Molly.

Dear God, I was going to die.

* * *

_Stanley Hopkins does not belong to me. I'm afraid I do have to take responsibility for the deranged sailor, though.  
_

_Note: 'Tefached' is hebrew for 'be afraid', or so I'm told. The fact that it's hebrew has no bearing on anything._


	7. Tough As Nails V: Against Time

_**Holmes:**_

The cabbie was remarkable and his horse entirely too good for cab-work. We reached the address in Chiswick in half the time I had stipulated. I tossed him two full sovereigns as I leapt out, the first coins that came to hand. Watson and Lestrade would follow in their own time, and until I needed them or they got in my way, I would ignore them. They were not the ones in imminent danger.

"This is it, Mister Holmes!" Simpson announced, dashing past me up to the door of the establishment. My attention, however, was elsewhere. Specifically on the mud outside the door.

"Watson, pay the boy!" I demanded, taking off after footprints that were barely visible under the comings and goings of others and the rapidly fading sunlight. I was not assessing the information on a reasonable level. I could not afford that luxury now, only to act on it as though on instinct, trusting and hoping that it would lead me right as it had before. In the same breath I hoped that I was wrong.

There. The signs faltered, passed into an alley, became muddled. I knelt to examine them closely. Signs of a scuffle, our killer's large round-toed boots and another, smaller pair, with a narrow square toe. With a cry, I shot back to my feet, despairing that, as always, I had been right. Those were Stanley's footprints if I had ever seen them, and they ended here. I took off again, sprinting this time, heedless of the concerned questions from my friend and the inspector. There was no time for answers. There was no time for mistakes.

Judging from the time he'd set out and the freshness of the signs I was following, I could say with confidence that he'd been taken less than an hour ago. From the account of the single survivor in San Fransisco, I knew that the killer did not begin until his victims were awake. Depending on the dosage of the chloroform, that time could be anywhere from half an hour to three, though it would be somewhat shortened by the introduction of ephedrine.

Though I am loath to use such romantic turns of phrase, I felt as if the blood in my veins really had turned to ice-water. On an inside calculation, I was too late. I would arrive in time to find him still living, but such damage to the spine was irreparable. The other living victim had been paraplegic after his ordeal. Stanley could not live with that any more than I could.

I redoubled my pace, silently praying to a god that I had long neglected. _Please_, I begged, _just keep him asleep. Just a little longer._

* * *

_As per usual, Sherlock Holmes and company do not belong to me._

_This installment also unbeta'd, but seeing the enthusiastic reaction to the last one, I thought I'd better hurry on._

_I see you shiver, with antici... PATION! -cackles, coughs- Yes, I know, I'm terrible. Take heart in that this nonsense comes to a climax in the next installment and you won't have to worry about more cliffhangers. In this arc, at least._


	8. Tough As Nails VI: Combustible

_Again unbeta'd, but you have to give me some points for speed.

* * *

_

_**Lestrade: **_

Holmes was as a man possessed. To this day I have no idea how the Doctor and I managed to keep up with him. It would be more accurate to say that we kept him in sight, and then only barely. Twice I was sure we had lost him entirely, but then the Doctor picked up the trail again.

We traversed what had to be a full half of Chiswick wharf through back-alley, the sun had set, and Doctor Watson was starting to fall noticeably behind. The stormy weather of the last few days could not be doing any good for his injuries. Finally, just as I spared a glance back and was sure the Doctor would have to stop, Holmes came to an abrupt halt ahead of us. He raised his chin, an odd tilt to his head, looking for all the world like a bloodhound who'd lost the scent. Then he spun on his heel and threw open the door of the nearest decaying building, striding in.

A minute later I caught up, finding him in a dark and musty back hall. The only light came through the gaps from the door at the end, the low steady light of an open lantern. Holmes advanced on the door swiftly, kicking it open without a moment's hesitation. It banged into the opposite wall and the hinges creaked in protest. As if on that signal, everything froze.

Past the amateur's thin frame I could see into the room, which in itself was small and nearly bare, the lantern perched on a far shelf. A table in the center drew the attention immediately with the bound form stretched across it, stripped to the waist and blood pooling down his sides. Hopkins' face was turned toward us, his wide eyes speaking volumes of fear and pleas in defiance to his gag. Looming at his side was a giant of a man in a collarless shirt, a hammer raised in one great hand, the other holding still a nail against the young inspector's back.

Holmes took a step forward. The brute swung his hammer, but Holmes ducked it with impossible ease, stepping in closer and delivering a strike to the man's jaw that sent him reeling. The detective turned, and for the first time since he'd jumped out of the carriage, I saw his face.

He was perfectly livid. He was actually _trembling_ with pure and potent rage. I could not have been more surprised if I had watched a block of ice spontaneously combust. I was vaguely aware of the Doctor slipping past me and going to Hopkins, but Holmes held my rapt attention.

In a flash he had borne the man into the near wall and struck him at least a half-dozen times in the process - I heard at least two cracks and knew one to be from his nose. I could not bring myself to come to his aid, just watched numbly from the doorway as the imperturbable Sherlock Holmes delivered a bare-knuckled beating to make any pugilist proud. I tallied three broken fingers, most of the bones broken in his right foot, a dislocated shoulder, a matched set of black eyes, and a couple more cracked ribs added to his injuries, to say nothing of the bruises and contusions. Holmes fisted one hand in the man's shirt and drew him up once more, and I started from my reverie as I recognized the shape in his other hand.

"Holmes!"

It was Doctor Watson's voice that snapped out at him, halting the swing of the hammer just moments before it smashed the culprit's skull in. Holmes' lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flaring, eyes still blazing at his dazed prey. The hammer trembled in his grip. He seemed to come to a decision, and readied again for the likely deadly strike, but Watson's voice stymied him a second time.

Twice seemed to do the trick. With a frustrated exhalation, Holmes changed his grip and instead jabbed the head of the hammer into the man's gut. I found him being tossed towards me then, Holmes moving to the table without a word.

I am not entirely proud to say that I was not at all gentle in the process of cuffing the man, but I won't say that I regret it, either. When I heard Hopkins' voice, hoarse and dry, rasp out something unintelligible to my ears, I had no qualms whatsoever about rudely jarring his injured shoulder.

"There was no sign of your friend," Holmes was saying when I rose again, in a soft voice that contrasted sharply with his anger of only moments before. "But I'm sure she's alright. Don't worry."

Hopkins had been freed and was sitting up on the edge of the table, his head bowed and his shoulders set rigidly. Holmes' coat was wrapped around him, but did little to ease his shivering. He didn't wince while the Doctor gently probed his wounds.

"Is he alright?"

At the sound of my voice Hopkins glanced up sharply, straightening even more and trying to look as though he hadn't just been through a nerve-shattering ordeal. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright. "Inspector-" he croaked, then swallowed and made to try again. I cut him off.

"It's alright, lad, don't speak. I'll get the report from you later." There was a moment of uncertainty, and then he nodded and managed a small, grateful smile. "Doctor?"

"The cuts are superficial," Watson informed all three of us. "They'll need antiseptic and stitches but they're not life-threatening."

"Baker Street is closest," Holmes commented, almost idly.

Holmes and the doctor exchanged a look, one of those looks of theirs that somehow bottled a whole conversation into the span of two seconds. The doctor nodded. "Of course."

Hopkins nodded his assent as well.

I was already partway to the door when they turned to me. "Watch him a minute." I gestured at the brute still curled up on the dingy floor. "I'll get you a growler."

I fancied that I heard Holmes kick him just before I stepped onto the street. I found that I didn't particularly mind.

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes and crew are public domain but do not belong to me._

_Now, you didn't really think I'd let that bad man permanently disfigure my favorite Inspector, did you?_

_This may be the crisis of the story, but do stick around, there's at least three more to go before we're done with this arc.  
_


	9. Tough As Nails VII: Diagnosis

"Well, how about it, Doctor?"

"I've stitched and bandaged him. He'll be able to be active again in a few days - two weeks, if I had my say, but he's stubborn as any Yarder. His appetite should-"

"Watson, it would behoove you to remember that I am neither unobservant nor emotionally frangible. What are you not telling me?"

"Holmes..."

"That tone alone says that something is wrong. I knew I did not like that glassy look in his eyes. It can't be an infection already?"

"No, Holmes. He's showing signs of ephedrine overdose."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Thankfully, no. Little to no chance of mortality. However, the effects are... unpleasant."

"Please, elaborate."

"Well... it's not all too different from an overdose of any other stimulant. Tremors, hypertension, anxiety, irrationality, insomnia. Depending on his dosage he may progress into a state of paranoia, delusion, and even hallucination."

"... 'Unpleasant'. You have a gift for understatement, my dear doctor. How long will this last?"

"I have no idea. Anywhere from a few hours to a few days."

"What can we do about it?"

"Keep an eye on him, make sure he keeps hydrated, and above all try to keep him calm. There's no way to speed it out of his system."

"Most distressing. ...Well, it is about time we got in some familial bonding."

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes and crew do not belong to me._

_Dialogue! Whee! And a 221B of dialogue at that, according to WordCount. FFnet does not agree. Fie.  
_


	10. Tough As Nails VIII: Familial Bonding

_Sorry this took so long, things have been hectic the past couple of weeks and I haven't been able to write. I'm not entirely pleased with this installment, but I hope you enjoy it anyway._

* * *

_**Holmes:**_

Stanley reacted quite well to the diagnosis - which I was glad to see, as it proved that his level-headedness held up under duress - but was quiet resistant to the idea of spending the duration of his recovery on the settee - which did not surprise me in the least. I would have none of it, of course, and settled the issue quite soundly with a few choice phrases. With Stanley's protests quelled, Watson busied himself ringing Mrs. Hudson in order to hide a smile. After a moment I remembered why, and I found myself smiling a little as well. He had said some of those exact things to me nearly a decade ago when I'd repeated refused his care.

Mrs. Hudson wasted no time in doting upon our guest with broth and chamomile tea; some combination of his youth, his obviously poor state, and his steadfast courtesy endeared him to her immediately. She also wasted no time in reproaching me for 'letting the poor dear get into such a state'. I'd been riding a tide of relief and concern since we'd found him, but that remark drew out a pang of something else, something I didn't think I liked. It was a gnawing, hot sort of feeling that seemed to enjoy stabbing at my gut whenever I looked at Stanley. I tried to think of a suitable retort, to keep up some semblance of normalcy with our habitual game of wit, but for once the words failed me.

Surprisingly, she let the subject drop, instead turning her attention to the fire. I wondered that I had ever thought her unobservant.

Stanley picked up the spoon and tasted the broth. Once Mrs. Hudson left, he was content to ignore it and settle back with his tea. Concern crossed Watson's expressive features.

"You should eat," said he, "You lost quite a bit of blood today, and you need-" he stopped as Stanley's pallor turned green.

"Mayb- perhaps later, Doctor?" He turned an openly pleading look on Watson. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to it right now."

"Of course."

I had the fleeting notion of laughing at this exchange and the speed at which my compassionate and fretful doctor gave in. The little monster growing in my gut gave another stab, directing my attention to Stanley - wounded and pale and fighting not to tremble as he sipped his tea - and killed any bit of joviality I might have entertained. There was nothing funny about Stanley - my _son_ - getting hurt. If only I had just-

My rational mind attempted to step in, assuring me that I could have done nothing to alter this outcome, but it did little to comfort me. I still regretted that I had not been sooner, that I withheld my theories until I was more certain, that I hadn't recognized Stanley's agitation for what it was and kept a closer eye on him. I had no way of knowing, but I _should_ have. As should he. He was a grown man of nearly thirty, he should have known better than to tackle such a man alone and without all the facts. It was his own impulsiveness that got him into this! I ought to-

"You knew the girl," I suddenly found myself saying in a bland voice. It was probably better for his nerves than the tirade that was building up in my mind. I pointedly ignored the warning glance Watson shot toward me.

Stanley's cup paused halfway to his lips. At length he set it down again and said, "Yes. Molly was... an old friend."

"You should have told us that from the start, you know."

"I... I know," said Stanley. "But I'd have been taken off the case. I couldn't..."

His tremulous voice should have stopped me. Instead I pressed the point. He had to understand what he had done wrong if he was to be expected to learn from it! "Better that you had been. It was too personal for you to handle, and you knew it."

"Yes- yes, I-I... but I couldn't let... I had to..."

He lost the battle against his trembling and would have been in great danger of upsetting his cup all over the blanket had Watson not swooped in to relieve him of it. Thus unburdened, he swiped discreetly at his eyes and then pressed his hands against the blankets. "Perhaps," Watson said with a pointed glare my way, "we could not discuss the case until Hopkins' nerves have had a chance to settle."

"Of course. ...I'm sorry, Inspector," I added. He nodded mutely.

Watson, with his terrific bedside manner, set to calming the boy enough that he could return the teacup. Over the doctor's murmurings, silence staged a coup, faltered briefly against the awkwardly loud clink of brandy and water being poured, but once Watson settled into his armchair managed to take over the room and reign for a few terribly long minutes. I was unable to think of anything but the case and the consequences of it, and without an outlet, my mind had quickly regressed to alternately assigning blame to myself and to Stanley. I could feel a black mood rapidly descending.

"Well, Hopkins, while we're here we may as well be friendly. How did you come to be the Yard's youngest Inspector?"

Bless that man. Bless him to the bottom of his immeasurable heart. "Mm, yes, do tell."

"Just lucky, I guess?" Stanley replied with a laugh that warmed the whole room, and with that we set to talking.

* * *

_Sherlock, Watson, and Stanley do not belong to me._


	11. Tough As Nails IX: Tenderness

_**Watson:**_

I awoke to the sound of screaming.

In the moment between sleep and wakefulness, the screams were joined in terrible chorus by the phantoms of hot sands and roaring rifles, still not quite dispelled despite the long years since Maiwand. Then my dream-state fled completely and the comfortingly familiar sight of a Baker Street room fell into place, along with the memory of our unfortunate guest. I threw off the bedclothes, sparing a glance at the clock to note that it was now two in the morning.

Two hours previous, we had been in pleasant conversation - though Hopkins frequently lost focus, found everything not related to carpentry or the case to be inordinately funny, and had to stop periodically to stumble to the water closet, both Holmes and I were quite familiar with these symptoms and had little trouble working around them - when the clock had chimed the hour, and Hopkins had tentatively asked for a small dose of morphine.

I was hesitant, but he assured me that he felt alright now, and just wished to sleep after such a long day. He did look much better. I hoped that he had gotten a much smaller dose of the stimulant than I'd originally feared.

The morphine took hold quickly, and after he'd been dozing awhile I found myself quite tired as well. It had been a long day for all of us, and I was not as young as I once was. Holmes convinced me to retire to his room for an hour, assuring that he'd wake me if anything happened.

I could only surmise that the morphine had worn off, losing out to paranoid delusion, and that he was in an unfamiliar place would not help. I darted out of the obstacle course of a bedroom as quickly as I could. Then I stopped short in the doorway.

I was not entirely sure what I was expecting to find on the other side of that door, but it was certainly not what I found. Holmes was bent over the clearly terrified Inspector, one hand gently pressing him back onto the settee while the other stroked his sweat-matted hair. "Hush, it's all right," he was whispering in a soothing baritone. "You're safe, Stanley. You're safe, my boy."

The delirium had no chance against Holmes' tender ministrations. Recognition sparked on the young Inspector's face, his breathing slowing to a less worrisome pace. Holmes tucked the blanket back up around his shoulders, continuing his gentle murmuring. "Just lie back. I'll fetch you some water."

A smile lingered on my friend's face as he stood, flickering for a moment when he spied me. Knowing there was a witness to such a show of softer emotions must have been embarrassing for him, even if it was only me.

"Delirious, poor boy," he confirmed my suspicions in a low voice, "but I managed to coax him out from under the dining table."

I wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not. I decided not to ask, and instead dared to say, "You would have been a wonderful father."

Sadness flickered in my friend's gray eyes for a moment. "Best you go assure our dear landlady that all's well. Otherwise she'll be up here herself in a minute with her infernal fussing."

As I returned from reassuring Mrs. Hudson, the notes of the violin floated back to me. I raised a brow at my companion as I re-entered, still speaking lowly in deference to our guest.

"Brahms?"

Holmes somehow managed to shrug without missing a note. "Always put me to sleep."

Hopkins' eyes were indeed closed again, his brow smoothed, and his breathing leveling back out. I would have to check his stitches, if he had indeed managed to end up under the table, but he looked so calm now that I was loathe to wake him.

I stoked the fire and then sank into my armchair, more than content to stay up enjoying Holmes' musical skill.

* * *

_You know the drill, they don't belong to me._

_One more left in the Tough As Nails arc.  
_


	12. Tough As Nails X: His Father's Son

_**Watson:**_

Hopkins awoke twice more in the night in a state of alarm, but was assuaged quickly and sent back to sleep. Observing that both times had been during periods of silence, Holmes had spent the rest of the night and the long hours of the morning drifting from one piece to another on the violin. I myself drifted into unconsciousness in my chair sometime around five.

Morning came without further incident, and Hopkins seemed much improved.

"Well, you look a good sight better," I said as I checked him over. "You're not quite ready to go back to work, but so long as you drink plenty and keep from stressing yourself for another few days, you'll recover nicely."

"Thank you, Doctor. I am sor-"

"Hopkins," Holmes interrupted from behind his agony column, "if you apologize just once more I will have the doctor drug you until your stitches have healed."

I stifled a laugh at my flatmate's brusque comment. "Don't worry," I assured the boy, "You're not the first nor the last Inspector to spend the night on our settee. Lestrade was a regular fixture for awhile, in fact. Think you're alright for some breakfast?"

"I think I can manage. I'm not hungry, but I don't feel sick anymore, either."

"Good. I'll ring Mrs. Hudson."

While he attended his toilet and donned one of Holmes' older shirts, Mrs. Hudson laid out a lavish spread. Holmes took up a piece of toast, and only at my insistence added a couple of eggs and a rasher of bacon to his plate. Hopkins as well was much more interested in his tea than in anything solid, until he was cajoled into tasting it, at which point he apparently discovered his appetite and attacked the dishes with relish.

Once the breakfast dishes were cleared away and we were arranged comfortably in the sitting room, Holmes cleared his throat.

"Do you think, Inspector, that you are fit to discuss the case now? There are a few small points that I should like to have cleared up while we still have you."

Hopkins tensed almost imperceptibly, but nodded. "Yes, sir, I think so. What do you want to know?"

"How you came to form your plan. You were following a young woman, yes?"

"Yes," Stanley confirmed. "Another girl I know, a friend of Molly's."

"How did you conclude that the docks were the best place to look?"

"That infernal stimulant. Like Ho- like you say in the stories, Mister Holmes-" In the course of our conversation last night we had learned, among other things, that Hopkins was an avid reader of the Strand, much to Holmes' chagrin. "It's the singular cases that are often the easiest. Ephedrine is uncommon. I had to spend an hour ripping through medical journals to find any mention of it, but they said it was an oriental drug, used by American sailors. Well, I checked the dock schedules, and there was the Morwenna, just out of San Fransisco."

"Mm. So you asked a friend to help you, intending to use her as bait to catch the killer. At which point you would subdue him single-handedly and be the talk of the Yard, I suppose."

"Nothing of the sort, sir! I intended to alert the constables-"

"Yet you were alone. Tell me, did Lestrade train you in?"

Hopkins' eyes flashed. "Don't bring Lestrade into this. My failings bear no reflection on him."

Holmes was undaunted. "It was his responsibility to teach you basic procedure, and among those basic procedures, I believe, is that you do not go off alone!" I was surprised by the sudden vehemence in his voice. "That sort of bravado is what gets men killed!"

"You worked alone," Hopkins returned, his voice quiet but firm. "Before you met the doctor."

I was gifted with the very rare sight of my friend at a loss for words.

"Yes, well," I broke in, "his sense of self-preservation rather leaves something to be desired."

Holmes cast a quick glance at me, some odd combination of gratitude and annoyance. "I was lucky," he said. "Just as you were last night. But don't count on luck. It's a fickle thing, and if you put your weight on it, it'll give out at just the most crucial moment."

"I won't, mister Holmes," Hopkins murmured. "I know how luck runs out."

"Good," said Holmes, apparently satisfied.

Silence settled in, of the heavy brooding sort that it seems an offense to break prematurely with so much as the rustle of a paper. Such silences were bad enough when it was Holmes alone, but it seemed Hopkins was well-versed in them as well. Like two volatile chemicals meeting, the reaction left the atmosphere in that room positively stifling.

The door-bell pealed, the sound cutting through the room and rousing both my somber companions. I found myself breathing a sigh of relief as the dark cloud dissipated. "Now who could that be?" mused Holmes. "Heavy footsteps-"

"Long stride, even pace - tall and confident." added Hopkins.

"But hastened. Eager. I daresay this guest is for you, Inspector."

The door opened that moment to admit the tall, sturdy form of Inspector Bradstreet. Hopkins brightened almost before seeing him. "Bradstreet!"

Something like relief passed over Bradstreet's face, a good-natured grin following on its heels. "Good morning, Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. I hope you don't mind my dropping by, but I wanted to see how Hopkins was faring."

"Not at all, Bradstreet, not at all!" Holmes waved him in. "Have a seat. We were just discussing whether he is fit to leave."

'Just discussing', indeed. Hopkins opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of the idea and looked to me. I shook my head. "You should rest as much as possible, and I'd rather someone tended you," I said. He looked about to protest when I continued, "But I see no reason why you couldn't do it in the comfort of your own home."

The protest faded, to be replaced by a relieved smile. "Thank you, doctor. I feel that I've monopolized your settee for quite long enough."

"I can see to his care, sir," Bradstreet added. "If it's not anything too peculiar."

"Just make sure he gets plenty of food, water, and rest. And don't hesitate to send for me if there's any problems."

"It was a pleasure having you, Hopkins," Holmes said. "I hope next time is under more favorable circumstances."

The door shut behind the two inspectors, and I smiled as I returned to my seat. Holmes raised a brow.

"You look rather amused, my dear boy."

"I was just thinking over the last day. He has your blood, without a doubt."

Holmes chuckled. "I have the strangest feeling I ought to be offended by that assertion."

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes and any related characters do not belong to me._

_My sincerest apologies for how long it took to get this out. Long story short: Cryptix is a flake and doesn't handle stress in anything resembling a constructive manner. This one is also unbeta'd, and I'm not sure the ending makes sense anymore... ah well._

_This installment is officially dedicated to Mam'zelleCombeferre, for being the only person to message me since I flaked out, and making me feel like this was actually worth finishing. Thanks again._


	13. Confidence and Confessions

_**Watson:**_

It was nearly a fortnight after Hopkins' quitting of our sofa that Inspector Lestrade next made an appearance upon it. His visits were usually more frequent, but he had been occupied with a series of cases that had apparently required quite a bit of footwork and no little paperwork. It was with a relieved sigh that he set down before our fire once more, and related to us a harrowing tale of a panicked jewel-thief that took four men to subdue and nearly killed two of them and himself in the process. Holmes seemed to think he was exaggerating the matter, though he didn't say as much, but I had seen first-hand some of the cases that the Yard engaged in outside those they brought to his attention, and unmeditated brutish violence was no extraordinary thing to them. Holmes' discrimination in his casework generally had the benefit of dealing with a higher class of criminal.

Lestrade fell silent once his tale had finished, standing and pacing to the fireplace despite his earlier complaint of sore feet. He glanced at the transfixed letters and the tobacco-slipper, lingered at the wax bust with the neat hole in its forehead, and then turned around and tapped absently at the mantle. Holmes pretended not to notice the Inspector's state of rumination in favor of the clippings that he was pasting into his scrap-book.

"No, I'm afraid I just can't let it be," Lestrade finally said. "Forgive me for asking, but just what _is_ it between you and Hopkins?"

Holmes raised a brow but did not look up from his work. It was as well that Lestrade's attention was on him, for I could not hide my surprise near so well.

"Whatever do you mean, Lestrade?" Holmes asked.

"Come now, Holmes, I've known you for longer than either of us cares to admit, and this is the first time you've ever shown so much interest in a Yarder. Not that I'm complaining, mind, but I'd like to know the why."

"Potential should be nurtured. And he brings me intriguing cases."

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. "I had hoped that by this time I'd merit more confidence than that. Never mind, then. I shouldn't have asked. Good night, gentlemen, I've taken up enough of your time."

"Lestrade!" Holmes snapped, halting the Inspector's advance to the door. "Please, sit." My friend leaned back and closed his eyes, his fingertips pressing together, his whole form arranged in the expression of contemplation that I had come to know well. Lestrade did not resume his seat, but he did not move for the door, either, dark eyes watching my friend expectantly. At length, Holmes said, "You're right. I give your integrity too little credit; in that trait, at least, you have never disappointed. You have never abused our confidence, nor anyone else's that I've heard of." He paused and opened his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You may want to sit down."

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade do not belong to me._


	14. Swan

**Excerpt from the Journal of Stanley Hopkins**

- I am resolved, therefore, that I should never again agree to anything involving Bradstreet and waterfowl. God love the man, but he is a dunce at times.

There's one other thing, though compared to the rest of the day it's hardly a trifle, but it still sticks at me. Lestrade has been glancing at me since I came in this morning, long before the swan incident left me a spectacle worth gawking over. I can't make heads nor tails of the matter.

It's probably nothing.

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes, Stanley Hopkins, and all related characters do not belong to me._


	15. Moustache

It was one warm evening in late spring that Holmes and I dropped by the Yard, intent on having Lestrade release a key piece of evidence to us from the morgue. We were welcomed in by the constable at the door, and greeted inside with the usual mix of honest warmth and curt pleasantry. A passing Constable Hinchley confirmed that Lestrade was in his office. I thanked him and followed Holmes down the passage.

It was not Lestrade's voice, however, which we heard through the closed door. In fact, it was Gregson's.

" - You've got the looks," he was in the midst of saying, "All you'd have to do is shave and you'd -"

"No!" another voice interrupted, which I recognized a moment later as an uncharacteristically agitated Hopkins. "Absolutely not! Not a bloody chance in hell!" Holmes paused, letting fall the hand he'd raised to knock. Normally I might have scolded him for eavesdropping, but normally Hopkins' voice did not reach such a treble pitch.

Lestrade's voice came next, somewhere between cajoling and commanding. "Come on, Hopkins, it's not as if you haven't done it before."

"Isn't this exactly what got you your promotion?" said Gregson.

"Yes, and it's also the reason I grew this deuced thing immediately afterwards!"

Lestrade sighed. "Lad, we _need_ -"

"Well, then, _you_ do it!"

There was a bemused snort from Gregson, and he muttered something we couldn't hear through the door.

"Gregson's right," said Lestrade. "Besides, you've got the experience."

"Regardless, the answer is _no_, gentlemen! Absolutely not! Find some hapless Constable to do your dirty work - _I_ am a Detective Inspector, and I refuse to ever again _wear a dress_!"

Holmes gripped my arm and jumped back, and not a moment too soon, as the door flew open upon Hopkins' ultimatum. He saw us and froze, the already irate flush of his cheeks increasing several shades. He swallowed and managed a strained smile. "Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson."

Behind him, Lestrade and Gregson leapt to their feet, both wearing similar expressions of sympathetic embarrassment.

Holmes quirked a brow. "Good choice," he said conversationally. "Corsets and crinoline are hellishly uncomfortable. Undercover work does demand odd things from a man sometimes, doesn't it?" Stunned, Hopkins could only nod. Holmes smiled and glanced past him. "Lestrade, have you a moment?"

* * *

_You know the deal, they don't belong to me, yada yada._

_Another one for Adidasandpie, who is officially my crack-muse. This one's just a teaser, it'll be expanded at some point._


	16. Moustache: Part 2

It was some six months before the subject of dresses came up again. Cases that demanded that particular kind of undercover work were, after all, few and far between. There were a much greater number that would be expedited with a pretty face in a frock, but simple expedience was not enough to force a man of the Yard to humiliate himself thusly.

A mangled body, two ransom letters, and a still-missing girl seemed to do the trick, though, as Hopkins had marched straight into Lestrade's office and announced, apropos of nothing, "Alright. I'll do it."

Lestrade blinked at him, tried to figure out what, if anything, he'd proposed to the lad in recent memory, and came up empty-handed. "What?" He replied smartly.

Hopkins grit his teeth in irritation, but backpedaled anyway. "The case today, you said it fit with a series of them you'd been investigating." Lestrade nodded. Yes, it fit perfectly with a case that had been open for years - kidnappings, mostly of young debutants or heirs, that turned ugly if their parents or beaus didn't turn up the ransom and were almost never reported otherwise. Very professionally done. "You told me about your prime suspect, Vance Arkwright, and how you couldn't get close to him to get the evidence you needed. You even told me about the bloody gala he's throwing on Thursday. Well, I'm volunteering - I'll go in and I'll find all the evidence you need to get this bounder, _and_ to find miss McKinnett."

"Hopkins, while I appreciate your enthusiasm, we've tried undercover. We can't get close to him."

"That's because you were all _men_." Hopkins gave him a moment to fully absorb that information before he continued. "I may not fit his usual profile, but I'll manage something, and I'll find miss McKinnett at the least. I can swear to that."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely," said Hopkins without hesitation. "I have one condition. You let me carry your gun."

"Agreed," said Lestrade just as quickly.


	17. Moustache: Part 3

"We'll have to find you a dress-" Lestrade had begun to say, once he, Hopkins, and Gregson had gotten through with the rest of the planning.

Hopkins had cut him off. "Don't bother. I'll handle that part. You just arrange my invitation and escort."

The older Inspectors had both looked askance at him, but it was only to be expected. They had a hard enough time wrapping their minds around his volunteering to crossdress. He just hoped they didn't think too hard about his having the materials on hand. It wasn't as if he actually kept a spare dress around his home, after all, he reflected as he stood in a cold street in one of the less glamorous London boroughs.

He knocked at the door in front of him, noting three fresh nicks in the dark wood as he did so. It wasn't a moment before the door swung open, and a flaxen-haired young woman leveled a positively ferocious green-eyed glare at him. "If I've told you once-!" she began to cry, before taking in who exactly was on her doorstep. Her fierce expression was quickly replaced by a jubilant grin. "Froggy! I thought you were old Tom Willis!"

"I must be letting myself go, if I'm starting to bear a resemblance to that old fogey."

She laughed and grabbed his arm to drag him in. "Oh, you're just as handsome as ever, Froggy. He's just been hanging about all week, banged up our door the other day when he got in a fit about something. I gave him a right proper earful for it, though, don't you worry, and beat him about the head and shoulders with a broomstick in case his hearing was acting up. Junebug, come on, it's Stanley here to pay us a visit! Oh - but this isn't official business, is it, Froggy?"

Hopkins patted her hand. "I'm afraid so, Gladys, but nothing concerning you two. June wouldn't happen to still be my size, would she?"

Gladys clapped both hands to her mouth and let out a peal of laughter that most men would have found disrespectful at best. "They wheedled you into that again, did they, Froggy?"

"Wheedled him into what?" asked the woman who had appeared at the top of the stairs: a tall, slender thing whose jet-black hair, wide eyes and tanned tone suggested an Indian heritage. "Hello, Stanley, it's good to see you again."

"Good to see you too, June," he returned before Gladys could interject.

"He needs to borrow a dress again, Ladybug."

June didn't quite manage to stifle a giggle as she looked Hopkins up and down. "I see. I think we're still about the same. When do you need it?"

"Thursday. I'm attending a gala."

"Well, that gives us a few days to get you used to corsets and heels again, doesn't it," Gladys declared with a positively wicked grin. "We'll have you a proper lady again in no time!"

Hopkins frowned pointedly at her.

* * *

_*I* like Gladys and June, but I'm biased, so I have no idea how they'll come off to you folk. Though I do think I may have exaggerated Gladys just a little too much. Erk._


	18. Moustache: Part 4

Thursday night, and with it Arkwright's gala, was fast approaching, and Lestrade was beginning to get very uncomfortable with this whole thing. Perhaps it was just his being 'shockingly conventional', as Holmes had supposedly put it, but the more he thought about it the more the plan seemed utterly absurd and doomed to failure. He'd tried to focus on his other casework, but his mind seemed determined to distract him by conjuring the worst possible scenarios, and then making them even worse every time he had a second to himself and his imagination could get out. It didn't help that Hopkins hadn't shown the least signs of preparation - he hadn't even shaved his moustache yet, for crissakes!

By the time Thursday evening finally rolled around, Lestrade had nearly worked himself into a fit over the matter. His fidgeting was almost worse than Hinchley's - Hinchley being the unfortunate constable that Gregson had roped into escorting Hopkins - who was trying valiantly to not look uncomfortable in an evening coat tailored for someone not-quite his size.

"Stop fidgeting with your cufflinks," Gregson scolded the constable, straightening his tie for him. "There, you look downright respectable. Doesn't he?" Lestrade nodded noncommittally. Hinchley _was_ probably the most respectable-looking of the men that hadn't garnered public attention, and, admittedly, he _had_ demonstrated some improvisational skill in the past, but there _was_ a reason that the man was still a Constable despite being Gregson's peer and a good deal more grey.

"Nobody'll notice," Jones added from the corner he'd settled into. It was not exactly a secret about the Yard what they were getting up to, and though most of the other Inspectors were busy and the Constables didn't dare be so bold where their superiors were concerned, Jones had appeared about an hour ago and announced his intentions to stay and 'see the boys off'. He had also given the other three men a rather mischievous smile and informed them that he had worked with Hopkins as a Constable, though he would say no more on the subject. Lestrade had strongly considered throttling him, but he'd been largely silent since.

"All the better. Now we just need the lady," said Gregson. There was another thing to fray Lestrade's nerves. The party started in a half-hour, where the _deuce_ was Hopkins?

There came a knock at the door despite it being ajar, and a young constable - Foyle, if Lestrade's memory served him - peered in. "Inspector Lestrade? There's a - uh?" He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a sheepish look and a slight flush to his cheeks. "Th-there's someone to see you," he said quickly, before disappearing again.

The door swung open, the nervous young Constable being replaced entirely by a tall, slender young woman. Suddenly the constable's blushing and stammering was made clear - the woman was, to put it plainly, stunning. Almond eyes, defined cheekbones and a delicate nose were framed by deliberate cascades of curls the dark, rich color of italian chocolate, caught up with a jeweled comb and not-quite spilling onto the gold-and-green silk shawl that covered her shoulders. Her olive-green satin evening gown was low-cut and draped with a jeweled broach, leaving her arms bare but for the delicate suede gloves pulled over them, and about her neck was caught a green silk ribbon draped with delicate gold chains and an emerald teardrop. She smiled sweetly as she stepped into the room with the bearing of a noblewoman, her gaze sweeping over each of the men in turn and lingering a moment on Jones.

"Good evening," she said, fluttering her long eyelashes at her audience. "And which of you dashing gentlemen is to be my escort?"

"Evening, Hopkins. Looking lovely as ever," Jones remarked, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

Lestrade would have gaped, but belatedly realized that he already was. Gregson let out a strangled sound and choked. Hinchley blushed straight to the roots of his grizzled hair.

Lestrade was, surprisingly, the first one to recover. "H-Hopkins?" he managed.

Hopkins - or, rather, the stunning woman that he had somehow transformed into in the last four hours - rolled her - _his, _dammit, _his!_ - eyes at Jones and let out a distressingly feminine giggle. "There's a _reason_ I was promoted for this."

Lestrade nearly sighed in relief, only holding back because he was sure it would be taken poorly given the context. For the first time that day, he had a glimmer of hope that this _wouldn't_ be a total disaster. "Lestrade, your revolver?" Hopkins prompted, holding out one white suede glove. Lestrade wordlessly handed over the weapon. Hopkins hiked his skirts up to his hip, revealing layers of crinoline, silky feminine undergarments, and a garter on his upper thigh that he slipped the gun into.

When he looked back, all four men had their backs turned, and the tips of even Jones' ears were an impressive shade of red. Hopkins let a most unladylike smirk curl on his lips.

"Something wrong, gentlemen?"

* * *

_Hopkins knows exactly what he is doing. Hopkins is kind of evil that way._


	19. Moustache: Part 5

Hinchley - or Chester Romilly, as he had been renamed for the night - tugged at his collar, his gaze darting out the windows of their rented carriage.

"Stop that," Hopkins scolded.

Hinchley tugged at his cuffs instead, stopping only when Hopkins sighed aloud. He consciously clasping his hands together. "Sorry. I don't understand how you can be so calm, sir."

"This isn't my first campaign, _Uncle_. And you'll find that high society is rather easier to blend into than working-class - just smile a little, talk even less, and if someone asks you something, lie and then excuse yourself before they have a chance to think it over. Proper lords and ladies won't dream of pressing the matter even if they're dying of curiosity. Remember, you're just here escorting your niece."

"Right," said the constable, sounding not the least bit convinced.

Hopkins gave him an exasperated smile. "Just think, you _could_ be the one in the dress."

At that, Hinchley chuckled, some of his usual easygoing nature finally reasserting itself. "Of course, si- St-Stella. Miss Stella. Sorry."

"It's alright. Just relax, you'll do fine."

"Thank you, dear."

"Much better."

* * *

_Something similar to a drouble, though FFnet and Wordcount disagree on exactly how many words there are._

_By the by, there's a nice little picture of Hopkins up on my dA (which is, in fact, the thing that started this entire arc). You lot should totally go check it out. [/shameless plug]  
_


	20. Moustache: Part 6

_Warning (and slight spoiler): Hopkins kisses a guy in this installment._

**

* * *

**The very first words that came to Hopkins' mind were 'large' and 'extravagant', in regards to both Arkwright's home and the gathering to be found within. The cloak-room alone could probably fit his entire apartment without trouble. Adjectives like 'sumptuous' and 'ostentatious' quickly followed, though he reined in that line of thought before it could cover any more of the thesaurus.

"Not bad for a broker," he murmured.

The house truly was beautiful, even if it did toe the line between elaborate and gaudy, furnished all in honey-gold shades offset by hints of off-white ivory. The gold-leaf trimmings all swirled and coiled into flowers and fleur-de-lis, reminding him of nothing so much as a cathedral he'd once visited in the Continent, when his father was rich and they could afford such a trip. The 'baroque' style, he remembered it being called. He was almost disappointed when Hinchley lead him into the ballroom and its ceiling wasn't vaulted.

That aspect, however, was the only disappointing thing about this ballroom. In here all the gold practically glowed, light refracting through champagne-colored crystals draped around the chandeliers overhead. And down below, the room was filled with the well-dressed elite, gentlemen in their uniformly tailored black suits with flashes of colored waistcoats, no doubt matching the ladies they'd escorted, who were themselves layered in all the colors of a flower garden. In the center, couples twirled in time to the quadrille band's cheerful strains, while other guests took advantage of the seats and tables arranged around the edges of the room.

Hopkins plucked at Hinchley's coat to get his attention. "A lady's first dance is always with the man in her company," he said sweetly. "And I can't see dear Arkwright from here."

Hinchley, who was really acclimating quite well to this whole situation, did not hesitate to lead Hopkins onto the dance floor, nor to settle his right hand against the small of Hopkins' back. "I apologize in advance if I step on your toes," he said with a sheepish smile.

"Just be careful. These aren't my boots."

They joined the other couples and began to make their way around the room. Hopkins focused the majority of his attention on finding their host. He'd never personally seen the man before, but they'd had a photograph at the Yard, from some article run three years earlier.

They'd crossed the room - and Hopkins was distracted twice by Hinchley fumbling a step - before seeing him, standing near the far corner and engaged in conversation with a circle of other men. He looked almost exactly as he had in the photograph - tall, handsome and smiling, with sun-kissed skin, a pointed chin, and round eyes that gave him an oddly youthful appearance. He certainly didn't _look_ like a heartless kidnapper.

As it happened, the man himself glanced at the dance floor just as they were gliding by. Hopkins watched him until their eyes met, held the gaze a moment, and then dropped it shyly. When he looked back again, Arkwright was still watching him.

It made his skin crawl, but at least he had the man's attention. It might prove useful before the night was through.

"Will you be alright on your own?" Hopkins asked as the set wound down. "It's a bit unseemly to dance with the same gentleman twice in a row."

"So long as I'm not required to dance with anyone else and make an even bigger fool of myself."

"Just say you have a bad hip."

Hinchley stepped back and bowed, offering his right arm to escort Hopkins back to the seats. Once there, Hopkins urged him toward one. "You sit down and rest a minute, Uncle, I'll be back in a moment. I promise I won't get in any trouble." He winked at Hinchley and slipped out of the ballroom, intending to explore a little before he did any major socializing.

There were a few other guests in the front hall, and a couple of open doors lead to the refreshment room or outside, into what Hopkins assumed would be a garden walk. None of that was what he was here for. He headed for one of the closed doors, finding it unlocked, and with a quick check that no one was watching, stole inside.

The room appeared to be a study, with shelves lining the walls, a writing-desk in the corner, and an oriental rug on the floor. It was much less vividly colored than the hall and ballroom but no less well-furnished, all in a well-varnished dark red wood. All that, Hopkins noted in the back of his mind, for the forefront of his attention was captured by the shelves, or rather the rows upon rows of books they contained. Forgetting himself a moment, he glided over to a shelf, almost reverent as he brushed his gloved fingertips over the spines. Continental gazetteers, banking law, histories, the full twenty-four volume ninth edition Encyclopedia Britannica, a full complement of Nietzsche, Carlyle's translation of Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship - _the titles mattered little to him, just that they were _books_, and he had precious few of them himself, and here there was a whole room full of the most beautifully bound specimens that he'd ever seen. It almost felt wrong to slip one off the shelf - a third-edition printing of Walter Pater's _The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry _- like he was somehow disturbing a sacred space, but all the same, he couldn't help himself. He let it fall open on its own, and began to read.

_'For us the Renaissance is the name of a many-sided but yet united movement, in which the love of the things of the intellect and the imagination for their own sake, the desire for a more liberal and comely way of conceiving life, make themselves felt, urging those who experience this desire to search out first one and then another means of intellectual or imaginative enjoyment, and directing them not only to the discovery of old and forgotten sources of this enjoyment, but to the divination of fresh sources thereof - new experiences, new subjects of poetry, new forms of art.*'_

So absorbed was he that he didn't hear the door open behind him. He did, however, hear the amused question, "You like books better than people, do you?"

Hopkins spun, snapping the book shut, to find Arkwright smiling at him from the door, which he had left just a few inches ajar. "I-I'm sorry," Hopkins stammered, his fluster only slightly exaggerated. "I was looking for the washroom and found the wrong door, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't worry," Arkwright interrupted, closing the distance between them and glancing at the book. His thick brows arched in surprise. "You like Pater?"

"I... I like what I've read so far, though I admit I'm not quite sure of his meaning at times."

He chuckled. "It's not the most appropriate fare for young ladies."

"If you say so, mister Arkwright." Hopkins smiled and handed him the book, deliberately allowing their fingers to brush. Arkwright met his gaze for a moment, and his eyes, Hopkins noted, were a distinctive shade of rust-brown, like dried blood. Arkwright returned the smile with his own admittedly charming one before turning to re-shelve the book.

"I don't believe I know your name, Mrs...?"

"Miss," Hopkins corrected him. "Miss Stella Romilly. Mister Romilly, my uncle, is escorting me."

"Ah, yes." Arkwright pretended that the name meant something to him, though Hopkins could see he was mostly just intrigued by the 'miss'. "Well, miss Romilly, I had rather hoped to ask you for a dance, but if you'd rather spend a little more time away from the crowd, I would be glad to keep you company."

"Oh, I wouldn't like to monopolize the host, mister Arkwright. Besides, a gentleman and young lady off in a room on their own? People will talk."

"Let them, it only proves they haven't anything more worthwhile to do with their time."

Hopkins giggled. "I'll bow to your discretion, mister Arkwright. Tell me, which of these _would_ be appropriate for a young lady?" He circled the room, running his fingers over more spines. Arkwright's gaze followed.

"I'm afraid I haven't many of those."

"Then recommend one that isn't."

His brows arched again. "Do you not have many books of your own, miss?"

"Not as many as I'd like," he said truthfully. "Mother says it's unseemly for a young lady to spend her days reading." Hopkins' path had brought him around the desk, and he turned to look at the desk-top itself. A dark green blotter protected the cherrywood surface, and atop that was what looked to be a ledger.

"Your mother sounds rather boorish, if you'll forgive my saying so."

"Just this once, but you shouldn't make a habit of it. What's this one?" Feigning innocent curiosity, Hopkins flipped the ledger open to where the ribbon book-mark denoted the latest page. Arkwright was quick to close it again.

"That's just my work accounts. Names and figures, nothing of interest."

Hopkins looked down and played with a curl of hair. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be snooping. Mother says it's my worst trait, curiosity."

"No need to apologize. I like a woman with a little curiosity."

"Mister Arkwright, I do believe that was shamefully forward," he admonished with a coy smile, considering Arkwright's well-tailored suit and his green-and-gold damask vest.

"Yes, it was. Do you mind?"

"I haven't decided."

Arkwright rounded the desk, catching and holding Hopkins' gaze as the distance between them shrank. "If I may be a little bolder, miss Romilly, you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen."

Hopkins retreated a step. "I'm flattered, mister Arkwright."

Arkwright took another step forward. "There's something more than that, though. I can't quite put a name to it. Something... entrancing, about you." Hopkins held his ground this time, turning so as to put his back to the shelf. Arkwright followed, closing in another few inches.

"Mister Arkwright, I don't think this is at all proper."

"Do you mind?" he asked again, tipping Hopkins' chin up a little.

"I haven't decided." Hopkins' eyes fluttered shut as Arkwright finally closed the last bit of distance. Their lips met in a kiss that quickly turned less than chaste, and gave Hopkins an excuse to bring his hands to Arkwright's waist. After a moment he made to pull away, but the man pressed his attention, leaning forward so that Hopkins was all but trapped between him and the bookcase.

Alarm bells screamed in Hopkins' head. His stomach gave a warning lurch, his heart rate spiking and breath quickening through his nose. His kidskin boots suddenly felt horribly unstable; the spring-steel bustle became the bars of a cage pressing into his back; the silk ribbon choker was strangling him; the tightly laced corset held him stiff and immobile. He shoved Arkwright ungently away, watching with wide eyes as the man stumbled back in surprise. "I-I'm not f-feeling very well, mister Arkwright. I think I'd better go." He all but ran out the door, silently praying that the man wouldn't follow him.

Hinchley was still seated where Hopkins had left him. He grabbed the Constable and pulled him to his feet without a thought for propriety. "Come on, we're going."

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" Hinchley asked, clearly concerned.

"I got what I need," Hopkins said in lieu of an answer, swallowing hard and trying to keep back the wave of dizziness that threatened to overtake him. Fresh air, what he needed now was fresh air. "Get our things, I'll meet you outside."

* * *

_Poor Hopkins has a few small issues._

_*Actual sentence - yes, that is a single sentence - from the prologue of the aforementioned book, as provided by Amazon's LookInside thinger. I'll let you decide if it's actually related to the story, but I had to share it anyhow. Maybe it's just me, but holy crap, that's damn near pornographic - and near as I can tell, the ENTIRE BOOK is like that._


	21. Moustache: Part 7

Twin shadows slipped through the night, making their way to the garden-level door of a shabby apartments. Slivers of metal gleamed momentarily in the hands of one, who bent to apply them to the door-lock, while the other held steady the beam of light from their dark-lantern. The sounds of sparse evening traffic could be heard from several streets over, and a drunkard singing loudly two streets to the west, but nearby, all was silence.

Then footsteps sounded on the dry pavement, and grew louder.

"Someone's coming," the guard hissed to his companion. The light was extinguished, and both retreated into the deep shadows of the archway, expecting it to be the constable passing on his beat.

But the footsteps slowed, and paused just out of sight. After a moment a trim figure descended the steps, an intent and urgent air about him that lead him not to notice his company. Keys jangled brightly as they were pulled from his pocket. When the first one failed to turn, he could be heard to sigh impatiently and mutter, "Must be the other one."

"Hopkins?" whispered Holmes' deep voice from just off his shoulder, tone curious and amused.

Hopkins spun at the sound, blinking as the figures of Holmes and Watson materialized from their hiding-place not two feet away. "Mister Holmes?" he whispered. "What are you doing here?"

"Likely the same as you, Inspector, following a lead on the McKinnett kidnapping," Holmes answered. His brow furrowed as he scrutinized the keys in Hopkins' hand. "Those are the master set, aren't they?"

"They are."

"Very nice. I see they talked you into an undercover assignment after all. Which pocket did he keep them in?"

Hopkins ducked his head, his answer slightly muffled by his collar. "His right-hand waistcoat pocket."

"And the address?"

"Was in a ledger on his desk."

"Hm. Expedient, if questionable."

Hopkins' gaze snapped back up, eyes narrowing. " 'Questionable', mister Holmes? You pick the lock, I purloin the key, but either way we're burgling the place."

" 'We', Hopkins? You have a warrant already?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Well then, as an officer of the law, I should think your best course-"

"Then you'd think wrong, mister Holmes," Hopkins interrupted. He continued in a firm, masterful tone, "This is _my_ case, and I am willing to do whatever is necessary to bring young miss McKinnett home safely and bring a swift end to this kidnapping racket. If you try to dissuade me again I will be forced to waste valuable time by dragging you both downtown for burglary."

Holmes' eyes glimmered with pleasure. "Very good, Hopkins." He gestured to the door. "Lead the way."

"_Thank_ you, mister Holmes," said Hopkins with as much bite as he could muster, though even Watson could see that he brightened at Holmes' concession.


	22. More Than Meets the Eye

_Tie-in to Parts 4 and 6 of the Moustache arc._

_**Warning:**__ Implied non-consensual sexuality._

_**A/N:**__ Sorry folks, fell into a creative drought. I'm better now that I've got a routine again. There will be a more definite conclusion to the Moustache arc later, but for now, an interlude, just to get me writing again._

_I'm not entirely sure this fits with the rest of Art, so let me know how you feel about it._

_Beta'd by the ever-lovely Adidasandpie, upon whom I am apparently a very bad influence.  
_

_

* * *

_

Jones had been surprised to hear that Hopkins was crossdressing. Not surprised by the act itself; no, he'd worked with 'Stella' three times before the boy's promotion and thought he was damn good at it. A little _too_ good, in fact, but Jones wasn't one to judge.

No, he wasn't surprised by the idea of Hopkins crossdressing. He _was_ surprised that Hopkins had agreed to do it again, after what had happened the last time. Even Jones still shuddered at the memory.

Fall of 1893 had been cold, and this particular night was replete with chill, dry winds forewarning winter's imminent arrival. Just the sort of night you didn't want to spend out in a dirty, dimly-lit street, waiting for a throat-slitting madman to happen by. Unfortunately, that was just the night that Jones had set himself and five PCs up for. The numbers were necessary - their quarry, Simkine, said throat-slitting madman, had already killed one constable on the way to his preferred prey. Of fallen women, the Yard knew he had killed three, possibly in the midst of 'employing' them. Nowhere near as gruesome as the Whitechapel murders of a few years prior, but that didn't stop a few paranoid whispers that the Ripper had returned.

Such circumstances might have frightened a lesser man, but if there was one thing young Stanley Hopkins had in abundance, it was nerve. He'd been informed that he was to truss up like a three-penny upright and play the bait, and his only response was whether he should secret a truncheon into the outfit.

The plan was simple. Hopkins, posed on the corner like an artist's model, was the lure. Two other constables nearby assured his safety, with one in uniform walking his beat, the other plainclothed and huddled in the doorway of a shop, ready to duck out and chase off any would-be customers that didn't match their man's description. Two minutes away and well within whistle-distance were Jones and the other two constables, and once an hour the uniformed man would make his way over and report that nothing was happening.

That was the way it went for most of the night and into the small hours of the morning. A far-off clocktower chimed three o'clock. Jones' men were fighting to remain alert. Jones was breathing warmth into his numbing fingers. The patrolling man appeared and reported that no one had passed at all that hour, that the street was dead but for their presence.

Five minutes after he'd gone, Jones decided it'd been quite enough for one night. Their man had preferred to strike between midnight and one, anyhow. He dismissed the men with him, who were only too happy to rush off home, and went on his own to fetch the others.

He found the plainclothes man first, curled in his doorway with his head bowed. The man did not stir when Jones called.

"Peters, you stupid lout, if you've fallen asleep..." Jones growled, nudging the man with his boot. Still no response. Jones' skin prickled, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He pushed Peters' head up.

Even in the darkness, the clean red line that traced the underside of Peters' jaw was starkly visible, staining his neck and collar with bright, fresh blood. The skin under Jones' hand was still warm. Jones swore and leapt to his feet, his own knife finding its way into his hand. There was no sign of the killer - nor of his other two constables. The street was eerily silent but for the gentle rattling of dry leaves on the wind.

He found the uniformed man at the other end of the street, curled onto his side in the gutter like he'd lain down for a nap. Blood oozed a lazy trail across the pavement toward the drain. Jones rolled him onto his back, scowling at the empty, dead eyes that stared up at him. No point in checking for a pulse. Still warm.

Still no sign of Hopkins.

His signal-whistle was at his lips, some hope in him that the other men hadn't gotten too far away, when a scream shattered the silence - a strange scream, not quite masculine, not quite feminine - and was promptly silenced. The whistle fell forgotten as Jones darted toward the echo of the arrested sound. A shop on the corner of the street seemed to be its source, windows boarded, front door locked. Alley door had been forced. He didn't hesitate to burst it open.

On the floor of the dusty back-room were two forms involved in what would, in another context, have been a very intimate embrace. In this context, it was a mockery. Hopkins was pinned to the ground by Simkine's broad-shouldered form, legs spread and skirts pushed up over his knees, wrists caught and held over his head in one meaty hand while the other slid the edge of a bloody blade up one exposed, pale thigh.

Jones took all this in within a moment, and reacted within the next. He grabbed Simkine's collar and yanked him off Hopkins, throwing him into the nearest wall. Simkine recovered quickly and brandished the knife, but Jones parried it with his own, knocking it aside and closing to crack him upside the head with the pommel. When the man didn't go down quickly enough for his tastes, Jones hit him again, making sure he'd be out for awhile (possibly forever, but that wasn't Jones' problem), and then slapped the bracelets on tight.

That done, he turned back. "Are you alright?" was what he intended to ask, but the words died at the sound that reached him.

Hopkins had pulled his skirts down, sat himself up and backed into the wall, but now leaned to the side, bracing one hand on the ground as he retched. The other hand clutched at his chest - Jones only then noticed that his blouse had been torn, and he was holding it together.

Jones took a step forward, but stopped, unsure. Were Hopkins actually a woman, he'd have gone to comfort her in a heartbeat, but comforting a fellow was a rather different thing, and a Yarder, quite another thing entirely. One didn't just-

Another sound interrupted his train of thought, a different sound. It took a moment before he recognized it for what it was, simply because it was the last thing he expected to be hearing: a sob. Hopkins was sobbing, curled up on himself in that dark little corner, with a torn dress, smeared make-up, and a wig that had only stayed in place by sheer force of luck.

Jones had the fleeting thought that he ought to be disgusted by such a spectacle. But he had younger sisters - three of them, in fact - and when he looked at the shivering wreck before him, he could only think of the night the eldest had come home crying because her young man had been far too familiar, and told her when she shied away that he wouldn't love her unless she allowed his attentions. Needless to say, the young man had received a visit that night from then-constable Peter Athelney Jones, and learned a valuable lesson in proper treatment of young women, particularly young women closely related to morally-grey policemen. Before all that, though, he'd had to calm her down enough to tell him.

With that in mind, Jones knelt beside the young constable and gathered him into an awkward embrace. Hopkins stiffened at the touch, but he didn't pull away. He didn't sob again, and some long minutes later his shaking subsided and he could again breath slowly and without hitching. Only then did he push Jones' arms off him and set about drying his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone," he said, his voice still a little tremulous.

"No one's hearing a word from me, kid."

Jones had sent Hopkins home, then, and taken in Simkine, who was convicted only of the two later murders and of assaulting an officer. The man's family connections earned him a long sentence in gaol rather than the gallows. Meanwhile, Jones put in a commendation for Hopkins, and the young man was finally promoted to Detective Inspector. Jones was not surprised that he refused the next time he was asked to play a woman.

But now, rumour had it that Hopkins was taking up the frock again, and by the way Gregson and Lestrade were fussing over dressing up Hinchley, the rumour looked to be true. Jones perched quietly in the corner, hiding behind a sly smile. At least Hinchley was reasonably strong and more than reasonably dependable - he would be a good backstop, if he would stop fidgeting.

The door finally opened, a flustered constable announcing what was no doubt Hopkins' arrival. A few years and some new lines notwithstanding, 'Stella' was stunning as she had always been, and the immediate effect on the other men would have been well worth the watching, but that wasn't actually why Jones was there.

Hopkins' eyes found Jones, narrowing almost imperceptibly. They simultaneously held a challenge, anger, and fear, as Jones' presence no doubt reminded him of what he could be getting into.

Jones returned the look with a simple, silent question. _Are you sure about this?_

A beat, and then Hopkins' eyes softened, and he gave the minutest of nods. Then his gaze flickered away. "Good evening. And which of you dashing gentlemen is to be my escort?"

Jones finally allowed himself to relax and enjoy the show.

"Evening, Hopkins. Looking lovely as ever."

* * *

_The boys don't belong to me, as I'm sure you're aware by now._


End file.
